


The Aftermath

by jejeje117



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4892509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jejeje117/pseuds/jejeje117
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The White Walkers came, and by the time humanity rallied back it was all gone. Sansa returns home after making sure that conflict in the South is resolved, unhappy with where she is coming from and unsure of where she is going.<br/>Set in the modern world, where a zombie apocalypse has rendered a lot of technology obsolete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winterfell

Sansa trod carefully on the cracked tarmac that led further north, to the heavily forested region that had become known as Winterfell. She knew that this road was frequented by travelling merchants and those wishing to reach King’s Landing (a seaside town many miles behind her) some of whom had managed, by now, to get their cars running again. They wouldn’t see her in the heavy snow, and she wouldn’t have much time to get out of the way. Speed limits-what speed limits? 

It was surreal, the idea of the old technology becoming useful and almost necessary again. After the White Walkers had come for a third time, there had been no way to generate enough electricity to do much with, and fuel had become incredibly scarce. White Walkers did not like fire at all, and whenever desperate times called for desperate measures-well, there was always one poor sod who was willing to lure the zombies to the nearest station with a zippo lighter or a torch in hand. The end of the world did that to people, made them hungry, crazy, desperate for a better life.

Sansa had been like that too, for a time. She had come to realise that her death would be in vain, she would just be sent to a different kind of Hell.

Except this wasn’t supposed to be Hell, now, was it? After years of running, they had finally managed to get together and drive off White Walkers. They had fought back more effectively than at the beginning, aided by bastions who possessed many talents useful for killing unnatural walking corpses. Order had been re-established, families and friends reunited, shelter and food had become more permanent-there was even talk of an education program being instituted in the cities that had not been completely destroyed.

While bastions had been shunned, hated and outright killed before the first wave, by the fifth they had become heroes. Especially with the Queen of the South, and the Grey Lady of the North being bastions themselves-very few people had even seen the Grey Lady on two legs, so often had she walked in the form of a beast, but they knew still of her second ability to freeze a man solid with one touch. The Khaleesi who ruled the south preferred to burn them.

Still, Sansa was aware that it could change. People, especially large groups of them, were fickle at best. It would not matter to them that their Queen had pledged her life to them if a bastion used their powers to steal bread from a neighbour, or slip a knife under someone’s ribs.

She resolved, in her fear, to not reveal her own barbaric abilities to the people of Winterfell. It was a road she had gone down before, and the consequences had been dire. She knew that her brothers and sister had all eagerly shown their skill at transforming into wolves to every Tom, Dick and Harry, but what would they say if Sansa (sweet lady Sansa, who was her mother incarnate, as good and kind as a young girl as could be) tore out someone’s throat with her teeth? She could not bear to suffer through the look of horror on her father’s face, or the glee her sister Arya would feel at the perfect little Sansa being a monster.

She had tasted more blood than bread, in the past few years, and she wondered if the stain could ever be washed out of her soul. Peter would surely turn her away from the pearly gates. Were Saints even a thing anymore? Religion had become an alien concept after the dead had started walking again, few people liked the idea of a God punishing them so cruelly. There had been a vicar once, his starch white collar torn and muddied, and he had resorted to bashing White Walkers over the head with a crucifix and screaming out prayers. He hadn’t lasted very long.

“Halt!”

The trees had gradually thinned out without her notice, the greens and browns replaced by the black and grey of charred bricks and concrete. Blocking her way was a tall iron-wrought gate reinforced with the corpses of old guns-they’d become somewhat obsolete without any kind of ammunition. She suspected they’d return to fashion once business was re-established, as had been the case with petrol and gas. Stood in front of that gate was a short, slightly hunched man using a sword as a cane (it was easier to kill monsters with a blade, simpler, more effective). His face was hidden by his thick fur-lined cloak, but she suspected that he was one of the rare older survivors, put to use guarding the city when his hands shook too much for other duties.

Sansa adjusted her own cloak, woven by her own hand using the pelt of seals washed up on the shore, to hide the dagger strapped to her thigh. With the same motion she allowed her hood to slide an inch or two back. 

Poor little lost girl, all alone and looking for shelter.

It didn’t work as often as she liked, not with so many men hardened by loss and battle. It was a risky gamble too, widowed husbands sometimes sank low enough to take advantage of vulnerable women, and thieves banded in groups to find weak marks.

“I have come for the feast being held here by the Stark family, if Winterfell is beyond your gate. I have heard that no sane human being is to be turned away.”

That last bit was the important part. The conflict with the White Walkers, the loss of loved ones, livelihoods, heritages and entire countries left many people without an anchor. They took their own lives while they could find their courage, or they broke at the worst of times and stabbed as many of their own kind as they could find. Twitchers, the Southerners called them, for the way they couldn’t take any social interactions without reaching for their knives, and how they flinched when confronted by friendly touch. The Northerners just called them cowards, for the North was no place for weaklings.

“How long have you been walking, girl?”

Sansa wetted her lips and tried to reply with a steady voice. It would be a telling reply, she knew. She had travelled easily, aided by her own skill and her abilities as a bastion, but few would have been able to complete the journey.

“Two weeks, I’m afraid. I’m rather looking forward to a warm quilt and a full meal.”

He wouldn’t accept that, though it was the truth. She could have, should have, stopped in any one of the cities she’d passed through on the way-it would have been far more sensible.

“You came all the way from the Cold Sands for a bit of beef and ale? I call bullshit.”

She smiled hesitantly, aware that she bared her mother’s countenance and her father’s eyes. If Winterfell was truly the fortress of the Starks, then this man would not come between a lost wolf and her pack.

“I admit, I rather crave the company of family, if it’s not too much to ask for.”

Her keen ears picked up the hiss of a sharp inhale, even though he stood some way away and they had shouted themselves hoarse trying to be heard. She saw him shuffle a little closer, then closer still, until she could make out his ugly squint-and he could take in her face.

“Well I’ll be damned. If you wait for a moment, one of your brothers will be fetched-there is no one better qualified to determine your state of reason. I can’t think of his name-the second youngest, the climber-“

This was a dirty trick, Sansa knew. Not only was the Stark family renowned enough for everyone in the country to know the names of its members, but her brother Bran had lost the ability to walk after a particularly nasty fall from the west wall of their family home. She said as much, her words coloured with disapproval now that she could talk at a low enough volume for a wide range of tones to be employed effectively.

A crack appeared under his nose, a narrow fissure, and she took a second to recognise the toothless expression for what it was-a grin.

“Come on in, Miss Sansa, I will send word to the house as soon as I finish my shift.”

She hoped futilely for a warm welcome, but knew better than to expect anything more than a punch to the face.


	2. The house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of warning, there's a bit of foul language and a mention of past abuse-but I think that's almost expected on ao3.

The house was not as grand as Sansa remembered it being before the first wave, back then it had been cleaner, modern, with a lot of glass and a huge well-kempt lawn. While it had since been tarnished, the brickwork marked by fire and the windows boarded shut, it was still one of the only constructs left strong and tall in the city. It had four walls, three floors, and most of the orchard to the side, where the Stark children had picked apples, pears and plums in the autumn with their dad-in happier, simpler times. 

She could hear laughter from half-way up the drive, the sound of a hundred or more people gathered in one building. There was the thwack of knuckles hitting someone’s cheek off to the right of the house, and the clatter of a plastic cup hitting the floor, but that was nothing to be worried about. It was a contained sort of violence, nowhere near the level of bloodshed she’d seen at the Wall. If things got out of hand, she could already make out a handful of imposing looking men and women who’d parked their arses next to the entrances. 

Sansa cocked her head and strained to hear more of the activity indoors, slightly conscious of the fact that it wasn’t a feat a normal human could achieve, but also a little (a lot) desperate to make out the voices of her siblings. She was grateful that she hadn’t allowed the gate guard to summon some kind of escort, it wouldn’t do for her oddities to become common knowledge, and she knew the way through the city well enough.

“-He won’t believe me, bloody idiot. I’ve told him a million times, I didn’t want it then and I don’t want it now.”

Arya spoke in a low pitched mess of harsh consonants and slow, dragged out vowel sounds when she was deep in her cups, while she had once employed the cultured, crisp accent of their parents. Something else had crept in there, and Sansa wondered at the story behind it. No doubt they all had their own tales to tell. A smile tugged at her lips before she could think to crush her contentment back into submission, and she indulged in it for a moment before drowning it in a sea of harsh realities.

Murderer. Monster. Whore.

Those three words alone were enough to dredge up recollections of her time at the start of the war, of the atrocities she’d committed, and then her mind conjured up snapshots of what awaited her in the near future, what she deserved. Isolation wasn’t enough punishment, it hadn’t been before, she would surely be confined, maybe even given a sound thrashing or two-Joffrey had been fond of his belt.

“Here for the feast?”

It came at just the right time, she banished thoughts of that handsome face, pretty golden hair and malicious sneer. A celebration was no place for memories of the mad boy king to haunt her-he wouldn’t have been caught dead at a gathering of such plebeians. Most of the Lannisters had been wealthy enough before the first wave that they considered themselves the cream of the crop, and that innate arrogance had persisted even after their savings had become worthless. She’d seen the great and terrible Tyrion Lannister from a distance, hobbling about the ports. His extremely small stature had made it difficult to get around, not least because it had prompted his father to damn near disown him. The Imp had managed to make a name for himself regardless, and despite her history with the Lannisters, she hoped he’d found his way to Winterfell for the freely flowing wine.

Sansa inclined her head slowly and studied the bouncer. Six feet of solid muscle, with a medieval style iron breastplate and thick leather trousers and arms. There was a wicked looking axe on his back, almost as long as she was tall, and as she admired it the man turned slightly to intercept her gaze. It was a little disconcerting, he only had hair on one side of his scalp-greasy and shoulder length-and half his face looked to have melted at some point. She ignored her own unease and called forth manners rusty with disuse.

“It looks to be in full swing. Pardon my rudeness, but you strike me as the kind of man who prefers to be inside, not out.”

The man grinned, and Sansa wondered if she was the first to do more than stutter and squirm. How sad. Many, including herself, had been left scarred and changed by the White Walkers-just because this man’s war-wounds were more obvious did not mean that he should be shunned because of it. Admittedly, he was physically imposing and a little stilted, which probably didn’t help him on the whole post-zombie adjustment front. That was fine, Sansa had been out of it for a while too, and most of the people in the South had never seen her as anything more than a set of teeth and claws (that was all she was, wasn’t it?).

“You’re not wrong, but well-bred wolves don’t like hounds trekking mud into the kitchen.”

That startled Sansa into a fit of incredulous giggles, although she nearly choked on them. She lowered her hood, and though she was rather filthy, her lineage was probably obvious enough to let this dog in on the joke. She had her mother’s thick auburn hair, when it wasn’t matted and clawed into something like a ponytail, and her eyes were the kind of blue that came from the Tully family, but she had her paternal grandmother’s face she’d been told once- Slavic, angular, what a lot of men called pretty. 

She wished fiercely that she was in her monstrous form again, because this sentinel was looking at her like a lot of men. Whenever they did, she was always struck by the urge to show them exactly how opposed she was to being seen as a delicate little flower. The tall man wasn’t a mind reader, but he took stock of her expression and found it funny enough that it took him a second to compose himself. Sansa took that second to snarl very quietly, then sound out her reply-no matter how much he offended her, it probably wasn’t anything personal, and she suspected from the rumours flying around half the country that this Hound had done more to earn a place at the table than a lot of the people welcome inside.

“They have no high ground to stand on. You’re friends over there will have no trouble taking over your duties, there are already too many of you on guard. Follow me.”

The Hound hesitated, his hand dwarfing the doorknob, and Sansa nearly huffed impatiently. It would have been improper of her to actually do so, but he saw it in the furrow of her brow and half of his mouth twitched upward. He continued on with no further prompting, though he threw a few comments back to her as they approached the epicentre of the “party”.

“Am I wrong in thinking that the wayward chick has returned to her nest?”

She didn’t bother to disguise the ire in her reply, this man was rough and honest enough for a limited amount of trust, and most of the survivors in the dark corridor near them were absolutely hammered.

“It’s Sansa, if you’re that desperate for my name.”

So maybe she was on edge about the whole reunion thing, but she selfishly didn’t want them to think that she had a right to be terrified of them, of their judgement. It was stupid, they could probably tell just by looking at her-she didn’t have blood on her sleeves or anything, but the red in her ledger felt like a neon sign over her head advertising her disgusting skill set, her history. 

“Sandor, Sandor Clegane. My parents had me late, I'm pretty sure they were children of the sixties.”

Sansa turned it over in her head, and then twigged that the sixties had been a decade of…had it been free thinking? Liberal drug use? Hippy parents, poor Sandor. By late, did he mean that his mother had been in her thirties or forties? He really didn’t look that old, or at least no older than anybody else she’d met. The fighting had a way of almost physically weighing people down, thinning their hair and ironing creases into their brow before they were well into their adulthood. She wondered, vainly, if it had hit her just as hard at some point. The last time she had looked in a mirror had been in her teens, before the second wave, and she’d been a skinny little bitch back then.

She knew she’d taken too long to laugh appropriately, and so smiled politely instead. Her smiles had a habit of not reaching her eyes, but it was the thought that counted.

“Sansa isn’t too common either, and my parents had no such excuse. Now, isn’t there supposed to be free food?”

She hadn’t meant to say that, a Lady wasn’t supposed to be so undignified, but it had to be the company. The Hound twisted around to face her and block her path, bowed lowly, and with a flourish stepped back and to the side to reveal the door that his massive frame had kept from her sight. Light spilled through, the smell of roast pork hit Sansa’s nose, and then she was immediately more concerned with finding her way to a plate of real, hot food than searching for brothers and a sister who wouldn’t appreciate her company anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a pairing, I don't ship them, I just want Sansa to find a kindred spirit in another dog of war.  
> And wow, I'm actually committing myself to something-quick, get in your bunkers, the end of the world is nigh.
> 
> Please can someone tell me why the heck the previous notes have stuck themself to the end of this? =S


	3. The inevitable

For the first time all night, the house of Winterfell was silent. 

Sansa rolled her head to the side, so her nose was no longer crushed against cold hard marble, and carefully planted both her palms on the floor before she dared to push herself upright. The world was spinning far too much for her to risk anything more than lying there, but then she’d have to contend with the seer on Arya’s face.

Smugness, triumph-and the wolf in Sansa couldn’t bear to let it stay that way. Lady wanted rich, hot, sweet blood, but Sansa wasn’t on the battlefield. Arya wasn’t an enemy, someone the wolf could maul and mutilate like the monster she was. If Sansa dared to show that side of herself in civilised company, she wouldn’t live to see dawn. It didn’t matter that the Starks could shed their skin at the drop of a hat, Sansa was supposed to be different-Littlefinger had kept the reputation of the prim and proper girl separate from that of her terrifying alter-ego. Everything in its place, he had said. The North had needed to be banded together by a creature not confined by gender expectations or past commitments. They would not have respected a thirteen year old spoilt little brat. And so Sansa and the wolf had for the most part been completely seperate entities.

Arya didn’t hold herself to such high standards-or any standards at all really. The older sister didn’t get the chance to right herself before a set of jaws clamped around her side, and claws were buried in the flesh of her midsection for the moment. She nearly bit through her own tongue in an attempt to muffle her screams…but she didn’t so much as move a muscle.

Death would be kind. Kinder, it seemed, than her own family. Arya had sunk into the form of a bear-like canine, her fur so brown that it was almost crimson, and she was too busy tearing through sinew for Sansa to get a good look. Still, Sansa supposed in a detached sort of way, little Arya Horse-face was not so little anymore, not so soft.

And then there was the eldest brother, Robb, taller than their father and not as broad shouldered, but he stood just as proudly. His Stark grey eyes were dull with indifference, his face twisted by an ugly sneer. The close-trimmed beard suited him a lot, but did not lend itself well to his expression.

Jon, the ever-distant cousin, certainly looked to be a lot closer to his Uncle’s brood than before the White Walkers. His broad face was pulled taut by disgust, though he made an attempt to convey some kind of apathy. He couldn’t manage to pull off a regal, imposing look-never had, but his short stout stature made it more of an impossible task.

Bran and Rickon, the youngest Stark children, had never even made it out of their rooms. Sansa suspected that they hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the drunkards, and those drunk purely on company after the loneliness of a nomadic lifestyle. 

The beast in her head quietened down, and Sansa was perversely triumphant at the hollow victory. Mundane, human thoughts had a tendency to put it off its prey, and she supposed it helped that the intended victim happened to be a close relative-pack, almost. Unfortunately, Sansa herself had not won on all fronts. She could feel the stone beneath her hands, colder than before, as cold as she herself was. If anyone cared to notice that it had frozen all the way through, she would be royally fucked. There was no way to take back the changes that her power wrought-

“You’re supposed to fight back, little bird.”

Sansa took stock of the Hound, who had somehow managed to wrestle the wolf-shaped Arya into a headlock that looked like it would end messily. He stood as if some kind of shield-a knight in shining armour, and Sansa couldn’t help but laugh at it. Her lungs screamed their protest, and she choked on blood and mucus for a minute. It burbled up into her mouth, then slipped out past her lips before she could move to stop it.

She didn’t dare to close her eyes for fear of showing weakness, but she did stop trying to climb to her feet. At some point Arya had got in more slashes and bites than Sansa had bothered to keep track of, her legs had perhaps been used as some kind of handle, to keep the rest of her in reach for a creature without posable thumbs.

“You still there?”

Sansa’s apathetic gaze travelled from her calf to her protector’s outstretched hand, and she reluctantly made to accept the offer of help. Sandor bypassed her weak attempt at saving what was left of her dignity, and he swept her up into a fireman’s lift with ease born of practice.

She took that moment to re-examine her sister, once again on two legs, looking both victorious and guilty as all fuck.

How strange.

The rather humiliated young woman sucked in as much of a breath as she could without spluttering, then took a stab at a retort. The pain was dull and distant, but not so distant that she couldn’t respect the amount of damage her stomach had taken.

“I’m not supposed to fight back at all, that’s not how this works.”

The Hound shot her the most incredulous look she’d ever seen, and she marvelled at how such a brute could make her feel stupider than him. 

 

“I left, and I killed a lot of people while I was gone. They may not have the whole story, but they have enough to know that it was all my fault.”

“Bullshit. You can't have behaved any worse than that lot.”

Sansa thought of the letter she had gotten, all those years ago in the post. It had been full of apologies, offers of appeasement, bribes to come home. Even after Bran had lost his legs, their mother had lost half her trachea, and their father had vanished to protect a family friend…Sansa had still been the top priority. Their interest had only waned after Littlefinger, the rat bastard, had paid a visit to them just after the second wave. Sansa was pretty sure that she had torn his throat out when he’d returned, but the damage had been done, and he had told nothing but the truth.

It was high time that she suffered the consequences of her immature transgressions, and it wasn’t right that the Hound couldn’t see that. How could she explain it to him, without giving away more than she could handle? She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and tried again.

“I should be dead, I deserve to be dead. They can all see that. It is their duty to punish me accordingly. The wildness...that is how they have always been, I was the one who was tame. Now I am the monster, worse than them in more ways than you can believe. I am the rabid dog they need to put down.”

No, she hadn’t explained it well at all. It would have to do, however, because her eyelids were too heavy and she couldn’t structure her thoughts in a linear fashion. Her last coherent thought was that if she couldn’t forgive herself, and her siblings thought the same, where on earth did she fit? She had tried so fucking hard to earn a better life, and she still wasn’t good enough for one. Would they grant her the privacy and safety she needed to reconsider her situation? It didn't matter, she wouldn't be up to negotiating at any point in the immediate future, she had made a mistake. They had not killed her, and that was where her plans had all come to a head, the key factor.

“You might have fucked up somewhere along the line, but you don’t hold all the blame. Your sister fully intended to tear out your guts, the whole hall cleared out so they didn’t have to witness it. That’s wrong, Sansa. They are not so innocent.”

At least she had managed a few sips of the Country’s finest wine before the first knuckle sandwich had collided with her cheek. Sandor wasn’t making any sense at all, and judging from what she could make out, she didn’t really want to piece it together. Reconcilliation? As if!

There would be talking in the morning, there always was after a fight. This one had been a bit more serious than Jon and Robb’s brawl over a girl, and Sansa suspected she’d be in absolutely no condition to pitch in, but that was how their parents had done things. She wondered if it would be as embarassing as before, when she had been stripped of her pride instead of her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so awkward, and stilted, and forced. Sorry,


	4. The calm before the storm

When Sansa returned to the land of the living, it was the warmth that coaxed her back. She was, naturally, a fair bit colder than most others regardless of the climate. In fact, after suffering such deep injuries she had expected to be damn-near freezing, as she often was when she didn’t have enough energy left to keep her…unnaturalness completely at bay.

Idly, she wondered what she was supposed to call it now that having strange abilities was not abnormal, and rather appreciated by most of the survivors she’d encountered. Only Littlefinger had thought of her as a freak, as a pet, and he had no right to have so much control over her psych. 

It didn’t matter much, she supposed, she had bigger issues to tackle. Like breakfast. It felt like her stomach was devouring itself, she’d not managed to eat her fair share before and the healing process had taken a lot out of her. It had left her weak, unsteady on her feet, and in a not inconsiderable amount of pain…but she would be able to walk without reopening her wounds, and she had enough of a poker face to make it seem as though she was still strong and stable.

Central heating, that was what was keeping her warm, the house had central heating. Her thought processes screeched to a halt as she sat up shakily and turned to survey the battered little radiator at the far end of the room. It was a commodity very, very few (noone until now) could afford to maintain. Oil was rare to come across, and there was never enough of it to fuel something continuously. How had they done it? Did they have access to some kind of supply? Some traders? Had they turned it on for the guests, to impress them? Or was it to intimidate her?

It was of no consequence, a luxury. The south had its rich fabrics and radios, the north had its oil, that was all.

What was she to do? There would be fewer strangers in the house, and she couldn’t hear much movement nearby, but the very idea of facing other people after last night’s ordeal left her sick with trepidation. She needed food, and if she did not eat then she would no doubt wake up in the middle of the forest on four legs, a juicy carcass in between her teeth-Lady had a bad habit of doing that, whether Sansa willed it or not.

Ultimately, she deserved whatever scorn or derision awaited her downstairs, the only problem was what to do with herself while she was shamed. She would not be allowed at the table, for she had no place on any table, and there would be no one to stand with while she ate. Perhaps her family would lay out the buffet as they had last night? It would be helpful if she could take her fill from the centre of the room and then shut herself back in her bedroom-for it was her old room, filled with worn teddies, torn posters, and painted an eye-watering shade of carnation yellow. At some point her mattress had been moved (given to someone who deserved it more) but she had slept in worse places.

“Oi, Sansa, can I come in?”

She reached instinctively for her knife, and realised that it had been unfastened and placed on her bed-stand on top of her battered rucksack and cloak. It was only Jon, only her cousin, and he would not string her up without witnesses to verify the deed. She had no right to be terrified by that thought, or to want to defend herself from the prospect…but she supposed habits were hard to break, and in this case her sense of duty was at odds with her sense of self-preservation.

She decided to stay huddled up in her sleeping bag, that way her infirmity wouldn’t be so glaringly obvious. Her rapid recovery stemmed from the wolf, and it seemed like all Starks had such a creature inside them, so they probably expected her to be completely fine after such a long sleep. She would have been, but after four weeks of nothing but scraps and an incident involving a very confused grizzly bear and a spear, she had enough to contend with without more wounds added in to the mix.

“Did you want something?”

Sansa tried to sound polite, really she did, but the North was rubbing off on her. The soft South and its god-awful politics had done wonders for her acting skills, but she couldn’t deny that she’d rather it had been someone impartial like the Hound at the door…and not a member of the family who had looked at her like the shit on his shoe.

There was a click as the door-handle was twisted, and then pushed open with some difficulty. The hinges needed oiling, or screwing back onto place, and heat had warped the oak wood somewhat.

“Bran made breakfast.”

He said it like she was invited, like she was actually welcome…but she didn’t doubt that this time it would be his turn to have a go at her innards, or perhaps she would glimpse Robb’s own furry form. She drew herself up with dignity, a bit tricky when she was bundled up in a holey thermal sleeping bag, and shot Jon the kind of glare she usually reserved for the likes of cowards and traitors in the Khaleesi’s southern court.

“I thought Starks were too direct for cyanide.”

He cracked a grin, then realised that it wasn’t a joke, and his eyebrows drew together in consternation. Was that…was that pity? Concern? After last night? Sansa pursed her lips in an effort to stop them from curling upwards into a snarl, and reached again for her knife.

“Arya is willing to allow a truce, and she might even admit that she acted recklessly at the feast.”

That was a crock of shit, and they both knew it. Arya wouldn’t apologize if the world was ending-she hadn’t apologized when the world had actually ended. It was, however, an olive branch in the form of a lie, and Sansa was torn between accepting it and finding out what in the Hell was wrong with this man. A few days prior she would have found some pretty words to use, but in present company…

“What do you expect from me?”

That was what it always was, wasn’t it? She was used, her services paid for. Family, duty, honour, had been her mother’s motto back when they had still been close-knit…and Sansa knew nothing of two of those things. Perhaps she was good at carrying out her duties, in certain circumstances…but not these circumstances.

Again Jon seemed disgusted, he actually recoiled, and Sansa arched an eyebrow in response.

“We want to talk to you.”

Just like in old times, when an argument broke out and Ned Stark mediated. Unfortunately, the incident had not been a difference of opinion unless she was seriously missing something. Sansa needed to be put down for the offences she had committed against her family, and Arya had been in a position to do so. Jon waited a beat or two for her response, and when none came he blurted more out.

“We don’t know what happened, and we shouldn’t have judged you without all the facts.”

Something clicked in Sansa’s mind, and she relaxed just a little. It wasn’t the heart to heart she’d been fearing, but rather a trial-clinical, professional, they would stack the evidence against her and find her guilty. In these times, the only true punishment was death, and they were honour-bound to make it quick.

She toyed with the idea of asking for clothes, but if she was going to be killed anyway…best not to wear her Sunday dress, or anything of theirs that they would miss. Why would they lend her clothes anyway? They didn’t care, she was just falling back into her old mind-set. Her travelling clthes were torn beyond all recognition, and stained crimson, so what did she have to make herself decent?

The answer was the slip of a dress that her Queen had given her, in the style of the south, bundled up in the bottom of her backpack. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t even consider it, and she was leery as it was of showing too much skin…but it didn’t really matter. Her cousin gave her the illusion of privacy by turning away, and she dragged herself up before she could change her mind.

The white silk and muslin was far more comfortable than she deserved, low cut and clingy, but it hid the worst of her scars and injuries. There were a few visible craters and tears below her knee, but nothing too bad. She wasn’t worried about the superficial damage being seen, and it wasn’t that important that her family would immediately recognise the Southern garment as one of her Khaleesi’s presents.

“Hurry up, the eggs will get cold.”

Eggs? They had chickens? Holy crap, that was amazing. Were they scrambled Boiled? Fried? She hadn’t had eggs since her mother had used the hob, and electricity had been out for a long time. Like some kind of last supper, the calm before the storm. Sansa schooled her features into a mask of indifference, as level-headed and put-together as she could hope for, and jerkily placed one foot in front of the other.

If Jon noticed how tightly her knuckles were clenched, or how erratic her pace was, he was above saying anything. Somehow that made the tension more palpable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually becoming a regular thing. Wow. A load of shite, but consistent at least ^^ What do you know, Uni is doing me some good.


	5. The talk (part one)

It was stupid to refuse free food when most sources of it had been razed to the ground or slaughtered during the first wave. Sansa’s eyes sought not the faces of her siblings, but instead the plate of warm eggs and bread that sat squarely in the middle of the kitchen table.

No man’s land, that was it. The kitchen was an almost sacred place, all food lost could not be recovered or easily replaced. Still, the rickety old table (chipped and scorched all over the place, it was a wonder it was still upright) stood in the very centre of the room, and gathered round it were people she’d rather not face. Robb, Bran (he was too small, far too small, his skin sun-starved and his legs dangling uselessly from the chair he sat on), Rickon and Arya.

Jon rested a hand on Sansa’s back and guided her forward, but as she wasn’t certain whether he was friend or foe, it wasn’t exactly encouraging. She steadied herself, made sure her breathing was even, and snatched up the plate before it could be taken from her. She darted back with a fork in hand, and then attempted to eat gracefully while under the collective scrutiny of the Stark pack. 

It was gone too fast, and though she had not made a mess, she had shovelled the eggs in at such a rate that it had probably looked pretty gross. She thought she heard Jon snicker behind her, and she stopped herself just before she shot him a glare-it was not her place. Now, how to clean the plate without turning her back on the group?

Rickon solved that dilemma. He had been barely out of nappies the last time she’d seen him, and he probably remembered nothing of the eldest daughter. He wasn’t emotionally invested in the trial, and maybe the others wanted to shield him from the inevitable outcome of it. Sansa muttered a thank you, as was required, but he did not acknowledge it.

She was then free to place herself within easy reach of the door, her gaze trained on any and all perceived threats. The silence was deafening, even when Rickon tried to dissipate the tension by scrubbing the plate furiously over the sink in the left-hand corner of the room. She spied a half-empty bottle of fairy liquid, and wow was that hard to come across.

Robb stepped forward, clearly the spokesperson, and even dressed in torn jeans and what was left of a football t-shirt, he was still quiet threatening. It was probably how he held himself, with intense fury written all over him.

“Why, Sansa? Why did you leave Arya to die when the first wave began?”

What? The confusion had to be plain on her face, because there were several snarls and a dagger was drawn, but Jon silenced them all with a gesture she didn’t see. 

“I was in London, with-with….”

Bugger, she couldn’t even say the bastards name. The thought of him weighed her down with dread, fear, horror, and something remarkably like anger. Yes, that was definitely rage, maybe she could draw on that? 

“Joffrey, Joffrey Lannister had me.”

Her voice didn’t shake, and wasn’t that a miracle. She watched Robb carefully, and he didn’t read anything in her hesitation. She scored him down on observation, he would never get very far in the South, where survivors had made a mockery of old politics and ruling systems. She did, however, notice that Robb coiled like he was ready to launch himself at her and tear her tongue out. Did he hate the Lannister golden child as much as she did?

“How did you not notice your own sister? Arya went after you when you ran off to your boyfriends, she nearly died because of you.”

It was difficult to keep her calm with so much venom hurled in her direction, because this was not the crime she thought they would punish her for. If she dealt with this accusation, maybe they would move on to what she was dreading.

Slowly Sansa turned to face her sister, her expression open, sincere.

“You and I clearly remember the first wave very differently. I was introduced to my first White Walker minutes after I met Joffrey’s uncle, Jaime Lannister….”

It had been a bitterly cold day, winter had set in quickly, and snow two inches deep had settled into the road. She had been sat at the outside table, in the Lannister’s garden, as picnic food was piled high in front of her. She had not been allowed to eat, because Joffrey had said so, and so she had turned to her lemonade and sipped at it every time Mr Lannister had chowed down on quiche or sandwiches.

“My sister already sees you as a daughter-in-law.”

Sansa had paled, wrung her hands together and tried not to whimper. She had only been with Joffrey for a few weeks at most, he had been impressed by her social rank within the school, and already she did not want to imagine being tied to him. 

He liked his toys, did Joffrey. They didn’t last very long, because he was never happier than when he made them twist and squirm and writhe in pain. It wasn’t his fault, she knew, he shouldered a lot of responsibilities and he needed to take it out on something…and it was her own fault really, for not listening to him and bringing out the worst In him. Joffrey could be kind, he would be kind, if only she was the perfect lady like his mother, and not a spoiled Stark brat.

It had surely been presumptuous of her, to expect to eat at lunchtime. Joffrey had mentioned many times that he hadn’t wanted a fat bitch of a girlfriend hanging off his arm, and she had put on half a stone when allowed to indulge in all the pastries and cakes that his family could afford to purchase in bulk.

“I hope I can match her expectations.”

And that was all Sansa had been able to say, before she had seen something white at the gate behind Jaime. She had paused, squinted a little to try and make out who it was. It had looked like the gardener who had sometimes tended to the Lannister’s roses, but he had been of Indian Hispanic descent-how had his skin become so pale? He had barely stood out from the snow. His eyes-his eyes had gone from warm brown to slivers of crystal blue, alight with some strange glow.

There had been five others like him who had not been put off by the gate, and her dress had made her trip and stumble before she could back away. Sansa had turned to Joffrey, but he had been cowering under the table, and his uncle had been busy wrestling with the gardener.

Ice had stolen through her veins, crept into her bones, and at first she had thought it was fear. Then she had brought her arms up in a feeble defence, and at one touch the white man had been frozen solid. The cold that had gathered inside of her had collected in her palms, and then expelled itself into the threat.

Sansa’s first though had been ‘holy shit’ in awe, her second had been ‘oh fuck’, because both of the Lannisters had turned to look at her like she was-like she was the same as the white men, like she was the monster. She had almost immediately been tied up with the clothes line, and one of them had slammed a shovel in to the back of her head before she could think to make a sound in protest.

So really, she had known nothing of any family visiting, she had not been allowed to know.

Brought back to the present by her own panic, she found absolute confusion on Arya’s face. Of course, Sansa had not told them of the ice, she hadn’t dared. Which meant she needed to come up with a believable explanation as to her incarceration.

“Joffrey did not like being bested by his trophy of a girlfriend.”

There, that was actually close to the truth. She cupped her hands around the hot mug of tea that had been given to her while she had been lost in her own head, and swallowed some before it could start to cool. The liquid was boiling hot, and it seared away the cold that numbed her tongue for a brief, wonderful moment. She got a few freaked out looks for that one.

“You had no idea that I was even on London-I can buy that, I met the little shit once. What about dad, your boyfriend tried to have him killed.”

Joffrey had been too much of a fool to have anyone killed, especially someone like her father, so she conveyed her bewilderment as best she could. Then she remembered that bastard’s wise words.

“Power resides where men believe it resides. Joffrey’s slut of a mother probably orchestrated the whole thing.”

Yes, Cersei had been that kind of opportunist. All that chaos, all that fear, she would have loved to use that kind of kind of situation to catapult her son into fame and glory. Bully for her that Joffrey had been gifted with no smarts, common sense, or charisma. It would have worked at the start though, like it had worked on Sansa at first. Joffrey had been awfully full of himself for a survivor, and she had wondered at the time why strangers had looked to him for help.

What had he done, to earn that kind of admiration? Sansa sounded out her question before she could second-guess herself.

“He claimed to have killed five White Walkers himself, and then thirty more, with the power of ice.”

Sansa choked on her laughter. That was why Joffrey had collared her, put her on a leash, and punished her by making his little minions drag her out into the night, where hordes of the zombies had waited.

He had used the evidence of her freakishness to convince people that he had a right to rule them. He had called her a monster, whipped her bloody for it, and then claimed to be one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no Littlefinger, damn it. And wow, I wanted 1500 words.  
> Also was/had dilemmas, so much past tense =/


	6. The talk (part two)

“Okay, so maybe you couldn’t help Arya or Dad. What about after that? During the other waves. I’ve heard of a Sansa Stark in the South, and there is nothing good said about her. You look like my sister, but my sister wouldn’t have slit the throats of over a hundred survivors-not White Walkers, but real breathing people.”

It was Bran who had said what they had all wanted to. Starks believed in honour after all, and cold blooded murder was not something they agreed with. Sansa swallowed with some difficulty, and leant back till her arse was planted on a cracked marble counter-top. She rested her hands on the surface, fingers spread out, and pushed down to try and counter the tremors that wracked her whole fucking body. She was many things, but she had stopped being weak a long time ago. She turned to look out one of the only windows that hadn’t been shattered and subsequently boarded up (and wasn’t that a surprise, on the lowest floor where the White Walkers could at it easily). Snow and ash was all she could make out, and the crumbling remains of the garden wall some distance away.

It was quite nice of her siblings to take it in turn to speak, very considerate. It was a little bit cruel, however, that they were keeping up the illusion of benevolence. She could stand to go without seeing the pity and faux forgiveness, and wondered at their apparent impatience for the next part of her story.

“I was…rescued from Joffrey.”

She said rescued with the kind of tone that implied something much worse, and of all people it was Arya who recognised it. The little she-wolf’s hackles rose and she looked for all the world like she was angry on Sansa’s behalf.

A second apocalypse wasn’t too much of an impossibility, was it?

“”A man named Peter Baelish…recognised my potential. He had his own car, and half a tank of petrol, and by morning we were back in the North-further North than this. He took me to Scotland, where this whole mess started, where it was worse.”

And here, here was where she had to choose between telling them nothing at all, or confessing her sins. Those sins included the very worst of her actions taken in the form of a mongrel, though they seemed to only know of her history as Sansa the Girl. If she left that part out, what little they could gleam form her story would be incomprehensible.

Surely, if they too were wolves, they would understand a little of-of her affliction? She couldn’t expect them to treat her as an equal, for she was far more barbaric and had fallen much further, but they would recognise that only half of her belonged to Lady.

So she ploughed onwards, determined not to look at any one of them.

Sansa had gone without food for four days, and Peter hadn’t seen the need to provide her with any rations. He himself had eaten little, and she trusted that if he had enough he would share-he had been a good friend of her mothers, hadn’t he? Her mother didn’t believe in blind faith.

Sha hadn’t expected it to affect her that badly. After the dizziness, the cramps, the burning in her gut, there had been….a sense of disconnect. She hadn’t been certain, but it was as though Sansa herself had not been at the forefront of her own mind, instead there had been something else.

Baelish had seen it. Baelish had grinned. 

He hadn’t fed her, instead he’d led her to a fairly solid bungalow and locked her in the bathroom. Sansa had fussed about, concerned by her own reflection, like the shallow little bitch she had been. Her hair had been such a mess, and there was mud everywhere. Not to mention the smell-how had her saviour not retched at her stench? He had left her a dress, draped over the edge of the bathtub, and after scrubbing herself thoroughly she had tried it on.

A red gown, to match the red Toyota he had taken, and the red tie he wore with his frayed black business suit. 

The door had opened then, having been locked from the outside (perhaps it had belonged to someone who had needed a carer? There had been no bodies when she had entered the house, but Peter wasn’t the kind of man who would kill a disadvantaged person for their shelter. Still, who had a bolt on the outside of the door?

A man had fallen in front of her, the door closed and locked again behind him, and he had crawled towards her for help. She had backed away, utterly confused, and…and she had swallowed the saliva pooling in her mouth. For a second she had been in control enough for the horror to show on her face, but then it had-then everything had belonged to the other thing…to the monster.

Sansa had returned to herself with a body that was not her own, not even remotely human-rather a wolves’. There had been blood all over her nose, soft and squishy meat on her tongue, and the remains of a hand hanging from her lips. The worst part had been the absolute satisfaction at sating the hunger.

The lessons had come after that. Baelish-Littlefinger, as he said all his helpers called him, had dressed the two-legged Sansa in rags and had her chained to the floor while he ate with his informants at the table. He taught her man things before he set her lose on the world.

“If Sansa was not a proper lady like her mother had been, then she was a dog who needed a muzzle. He liked her she was a wolf, when she obeyed him as only a pet could, but he liked her more when she took the form that her good mother had given her.

Littlefinger had found pleasure in her shape, in Catelyn Tully’s face, but had grown furious whenever his eyes had set upon something too Stark-ish for his tastes.

That was how Lady had been born, the creature that did not care for social graces or the expectations Sansa had to live up to. But she had not been allowed to take that form all the time…which was how Sansa had ended up in one of Littlefinger’s brothels, surrounded by completely human corpses.

He had often set her upon people who displeased him, when starvation had made her wild and beyond reason, but this had been different. This had been a massacre purely for the sake of it, after the last of the laws had been abandoned. With no police force, no government, no monarchy…he had celebrated. In fact, it had looked to be a board meeting room, every seat filled with the fat carcass of a face she recognised from the...from the bill that had been passed before the first zombie had popped up. The one that had stated that all freaks needed to be put on a register. What had they gathered there for? There had been more important issues that obsolete rules and regulations...

Littlefinger had taken offence at the bill for some reason, chosen them to represent all who opposed him, and had them killed as a demonstration for all who had cared to see.

And Sansa had been party to it, still his little bitch no matter what form she took.

Sansa chanced a glance at her siblings, back in the kitchen at the house, and then at Jon who stood to her side. They looked absolutely pole-axed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I want to get through this annoying present tense-past tense thing. I might even write another after work O.o  
> Is my au Sansa starting to make sense?  
> I'm ill, and I have work, and more work tomorrow. I'll update sometime after 4 tomorrow, but right now I'm a little busy =/ Sorry


	7. The talk (part three)

Sansa was not above taking the chance she was given to get another slice of bread down her neck, but her eyes drifted over from one possible threat to the next, and she couldn’t quite relax her shoulders. Her family left her to it, distracted as they were by the twisted tale she had just gotten out, and the dirty laundry she had aired.

After a few minutes of tense silence and tumbleweed, Jon was the first to crack. Sansa carefully observed him as he moved away from the vulnerable spot in her peripheral vision, to the table heavily laden with food. He wasn’t taunting her, wasn’t flaunting his superior combat skills…instead he was acknowledging that she was worth a little trust.

“I was wondering if you also possess a heightened sense of smell?”

Well, that was an abrupt change of tack. She regarded her cousin with bemusement, and fussed with the wrinkles in her dress while she formed a reply.

“Most of my senses are fairly strong, yes. Why do you want to know?”

Well now, she’d never seen Jon look so unsure of himself. He kept his violet-grey eyes trained on a tile on the wall, several inches to the left of her face. His hands, she noticed, kept twitching towards the sword by his side, kept in a scabbard that looked to be made of leather and some kind of animal pelt.

When Sansa glanced at the others in the room, they all expressed some degree of intense anticipation, which led her to believe that they all knew the reasoning behind the out-of-the-blue question. They looked like they would have asked her themselves if given half a chance.

“During the second wave, Uncle left in search of you. He feared that you’d gotten caught up in something dangerous, and he took his run-in with the Lannister as confirmation. I was wondering if you had caught his scent.”

She looked up at Jon, eyes stretched wide with incredulousness. She had caught a great many scents while she had roamed free, but not once had she recognised any one smell that had reminded her of her father. She’d only begun to manifest aspects of Lady after her time spent with Joffrey, which would have been when she was most likely to come across anything relevant. Unfortunately, it meant she had not had a sensitive enough nose while in the presence of her father to attribute a specific set of smells to him.

Did they expect her to bury her face in a pair of dirty, mouldy socks like a dog? Surely no item of his clothing would have survived five whole years?

On top of that, Sansa had not been free and able to act on her own volition for most of the war. Even when she had been offered absolute freedom, she had pursued an ambition that had left her with a great deal of responsibility, and had therefore not had much chance to chase after interesting scent-trails or baseless rumours. 

She wasn’t cruel enough to dash the hopes of her family so readily, however, and so scowled at the ceiling as she wracked her brains for useful information.

“I spent most of my time in the South as Sansa up until the fourth wave, and only ventured North as a wolf. It stands to reason that dad chased me there, but I can’t understand why he would have stayed. You were more his children than I ever was. Is there a time limit? I have some people I can talk to.”

Oh wow, was her trust in these people that deep-rooted? Only the day before had her sister driven fangs into her stomach, and she had walked into the kitchen fully expecting a death sentence. They couldn’t possibly be naïve enough to take her at her word…

The solution, whether Sansa wanted that particular outcome or not, was to leave in search of her father with one of them in tow. She would then be able to fix everything she’d broken in Daenerys' court by dropping everything and chasing a few rumours back to Winterfell in the hopes she’d get killed. Dany insisted that she had a place in the North, but the Khaleesi probably knew that Sansa had gone bounding off on a suicide run, and not in search of a home.

It was Lady, the wolf, who belonged in the North. Sansa was tied too strongly to the south, too used to being mired in politics and subterfuge. Now that what seemed to be the final wave had passed, Lady was not needed by the Northern survivors. She had done her duty, she had torn every last White Walker to shreds in her mad quest for redemption, and people had no need for such monsters during peace-time.

So, while she pretended to have never left the Cold Sands-Plymouth, Plymouth it was supposed to be now-her escort could chase shadows back to the men that cast them and find her dad. There was even a chance that she’d be able to help herself, a lot of people shit themselves at the sight of the little Lannister Lion’s former betrothed. 

It was funny, actually. Her massacre of politicians had been attributed to temporary madness, to grief, as Joffrey had been poisoned by a member of his own family. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, was someone she would be forever grateful to for that act of nepoticide…even if it had been orchestrated by Littlefinger and carried out unintentionally by the Lion.

“What are you thinking?”

Sansa managed a smile, and it was supposed to be reassuring. Robb didn’t look at all convinced.

“I need to return to the South anyway, it was selfish of me to visit Winterfell. As it so happens, the road to the Cold Sands takes me through London, Kings Landing as you call it now. It is so difficult to find the resources to transport people that I doubt Cersei had moved him.”

For there was no doubt in her mind that her father had been either killed or captured by the bitch. If there was anything the Lannisters hated, it was unfinished business. Joffrey had killed all the infants left in London in a fit of madness, thinking that one of them had to be a bastard of his father, Robert Baratheon. Somehow a few truly disgusting pieces of conjecture had begun to circulate the city.

The young Lannisters bore no resemblance to the late head of Baratheon Industries, none whatsoever, but they looked remarkably like their uncle, Jaime. And hadn’t it been remarked before that Cersei’s love of her twin was unhealthy, abnormal even? 

It had driven Joffrey to mass-murder, the idea that anyone on the streets could have more of a claim to Robert’s Legacy than him.

The Starks were clearly no stranger to the idea that Cersei Lannister was the worst of sorts, they didn’t even think to question Sansa’s assumptions. Either they trusted her a little bit too, or they were so frustrated at being cooped up in a safe-houses that they’d jump at the chance to run around outside of its walls.

“And also, you might want to take your concerns to Sandor, if he’s still around. I’m assuming that he’s local, if you allowed him to guard this place. The Hound is very well known in the south, not only for his temper and capacity for violence, but also for the years he spent as Cersei Lannister’s paid bodyguard. In case that bit of his history didn’t follow him up to this part of England.”

Bran looked absolutely appalled at his newfound knowledge, and Sansa didn’t want to leave him with the impression that the poor man was as much of a brute as she herself could be. She considered the scraps of information she’d compiled about the Hound and managed to glue them all together into something a bit more flattering.

“Arya can vouch for him, I think. IT has been said that he left the Lannisters to help the Red Wolf, who…I have since learned bears a striking resemblance to my sister.”

Sansa wouldn’t have believed it possible before, but battle-hardened Arya flushed red from nose to ears just like she had before the White Walkers came. Arya looked up from her boots and mumbled something at a level no normal human would have caught.

“He’s alright, for a sell-sword.”

That was enough to ensure that Sandor would be questioned as a tentative ally…and not an enemy. Her good deed done for the day, Sansa screwed up her remaining courage and ventured into unchartered waters.

“So, is mum about?”

The silence spoke volumes, but it didn’t say enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to write myself a list of who was doing what, where, when -_- too wiped to make sense of my harebrained ideas.  
> Yeah, I really hope the boring part is over now. I want White Walkers and Lannisters and Southern "royalty" to show up =/
> 
> I keep going back and editing chapters, I don't know whether you notice or not lol-I'm blind to my own mistakes and occcasionally catch things I need to fix. No doubt this chapter will be just as riddled with errors and inconstencies, so if you see anything let me know and I'll do my best to make it right.


	8. The trek

When Sansa walked on the road, it was with the sure grace or a seasoned traveller. Her backpack was small enough to not be an inconvenience, and light enough that she barely felt its presence, but it still contained everything she needed. Rations? Why would she have to bring any of those? With a good nose anyone could track the wildlife that had survived the White Walkers, and Sansa had a better nose than most. No, she took only the clothes on her back, a spare set and a blanket in her bag, and maybe a few items valuable enough to trade with the wandering merchants.

Jon, it was plain to see, had no such experience to fall back on. His bag was as heavy as she was, and he’d left the house wearing at least three layers. Maybe he could afford to do that, but few had that many pieces of clothing, and on top of the attention he’d attract he would definitely overheat by the time they left Winterfell.

At least, Sansa supposed, his cloak was rugged enough to pass muster. That and he hadn’t meticulously trimmed his hair and beard like Robb and Bran, it was a pointless exercise in Vanity. She herself only combed her hair out when it was too knotted to tie out the way, and unlike a lot of Southerners she kept company with, she’d never acquired powders or perfumes to pretty herself up with. How would it help them defend themselves? Batting lashes at a White Walker was about as effective as politely requesting that the turn around and leave in peace.

Arya had seemed to share the same-mind set as Sansa, as had most of the Northern girls, but then that had been the way since the first wave. The South had sat there checking their reflections and talking about what they might do, the North had picked up their kitchen knives and gotten straight to hacking at the animated corpses.

Perhaps that had been why Daenerys had chosen to plonk herself as far South as possible. With a Queen, a Khaleesi, right in their midst, all the talkers had had no choice but to back up their flowery words and get to work. Dany had led them by example, so impressive and determined to drive away the threat that people had gathered in her wake and followed her to battle.

Sansa, Sansa had approached it a little differently. She had fled to the North from the iron grip of Littlefinger, lost and alone, and scared out of her wits. For a while, it had been Lady who had been dominant. Then she had found shelter, kind strangers willing to help a homeless stray for a night or two, and their charity had kindled in her a strange kind of fire.

It hadn’t been like when she had fought for Littlefinger, she had driven herself to more savagery without anyone else holding the range, and while she had no doubt spared a great many lives…she had crushed the cold, dead hearts of zombies in between her teeth. Children had run from her, and people she encountered had a nasty habit of pissing themselves. 

Somehow it had turned into a duty, an obligation, because no one else had been brutish enough to take on the White Walkers so close to where they had first clawed themselves out of the ground they had been laid to rest in. Lady had become a source of…hope, sick and twisted as that was. 

Oh, some people saw Sansa as clearly as she herself did. Her family was one such case. She needed sometimes to be reminded of her place, beneath even the thieves and murderers who had taken root in the West. She sometimes looked like a woman, and needed at all times to appear as a proper lady should while on two legs, but behind her eyes lay the mind of a beast that thrived on the hunt, made up of primal instinct and inhuman logic.

When she had first came across rumours of the entire Stark family possessing similar tendencies, Sansa had dared to hope. She had been wrong to wish such a disgusting state of being on to her blood, for she had seen that they were far more…adjusted than she herself was. They had learned how to balance the needs of either form without compromising their own integrity, and she envied them it. 

So what if Arya had acted exactly as Sansa had wanted her to? There had been a human intelligence in the red wolf’s gaze as she had leapt, the damage she had dealt had been absolutely deliberate and absolutely deserved. Though the selfish part of Sansa clung to immature self-pity and resentment, she had learned how to leave her petty desires such as unjustified vengeance unsatisfied. Because she, herself, was wrong. The only grip Sansa had on the reality that other people perceived was the reality that Littlefinger had beaten into her, and he had showed her everything she was not.

Her family had seen those same imperfections, proving Littlefinger right. 

She still didn’t regret chowing down on the bastard’s heart.

“Why me? Why did you want my company on this trek?”

Sansa tore her eyes away from the cracked, broken remains of the road and let Jon know that she was aware of his presence. His slow gait had been bothering her for quite some time, but the only way of speeding the journey up was shifting on to four legs, and she wasn’t quite willing to let him see her in such a state-even If it meant a glimpse at his own canine form.

“Because I can at least trust you not to stab me in the back.”

The front was a different matter entirely. Jon’s incredulous look suggested that he had gleaned as much from her tone. He slowed his steps still more and crossed his arms in a show of masculine superiority, as if he was in a position to scold her. Sansa was more than happy to remind him that such archaic principles had not been relevant for some time. Humans were few in number, and for the most part they were of equal standing or they were dead. Of course, during the last wave a strange order had been established, but those who had been left standing at the top of the hierarchical pyramid had earned their respect. 

Jon brought his arms down stiffly, sullen and chastised at the reminder of this in the form of a single eye roll. 

“None of us welcomed you into our home. I can’t understand why you would want to return if it meant almost certain death.”

Because that death would right more wrongs that Sansa knew how to fix. Because she had wanted to see her family one last time. Because some small, smothered part of her had wanted a chance at proving Littlefinger wrong even in death-she was a Stark, she was. 

Except she wasn’t. If she belonged to the Starks, they would not have tried to maul her or allowed her to be torn apart in the middle of a welcoming feast.

Jon was not Arya, he did at least know when to listen, even if she had done enough talking already.

“What do you know of the happenings in the South?”

That stumped him, clearly the North had not neatly pieced itself back together after the final wave, and communication was not a priority. She had suspected as much.

“You have heard of the Queen? Good. There is, according to most, a Queen of the South and a Lady of the North. They are equals and opposites, positive and negative, and for the last few months they have been planning to establish order.”

“The North is no place for order, it never will be.”

And Sansa grinned at him, all sharp teeth and not at all restrained as was proper. 

“Exactly. The Lady represents that chaos, that savagery, that unlawfulness and thirst for violence. It is known that whoever she allows to put her down will inherit her influence…and therefore be able to put an end to the chaos without resorting to more drastic measures.”

Jon paled, and he abandoned even the pretence of making any forward progress. Sansa sighed impatiently at his complete inability to talk on the move, and then flinched as his hand clenched around her elbow.

“If it is true that every Stark is a wolf, and you let Arya take a shot at you…”

Wow, there was more grey matter in his thick skull than Sansa had thought. Still, he seemed too pained, too confused to have come to the right conclusions.

“Do you plan on finishing that sentence?”

He swallowed, and almost seemed to wilt. There was shame written all over him, and that was baffling. His hands shook when he let go of her arm and went to fiddle with the hilt of his sword, but he had enough conviction to continue.

“If it is true that you are also the wolf known as the Grey Lady, then you have redeemed yourself many times over for the actions Littlefinger forced you to commit. You would have had us kill you, and been content with the blame laid falsely at your feet, and we would never have known that you were a scapegoat if Arya had carried out the execution.”

Sansa snorted derisively, and turned away from the sympathy she did not want to see.

“I am nothing like you.”

“Me personally? Not exactly, no. Fate may have dealt us different hands, but you are just as much a Stark as the rest of us, perhaps more so than some. Winter is coming, our ancestors said, and so it did. You looked past that winter to the wreckage it would leave, and are doing more to prepare for the coming change than we are-sat there in our house like the outside world does not matter. You are braving the storm that we have yet to face.”

“Politics, law, petty things-Starks have never been keen on them.”

“Regardless, you deserve better than the reception we gave you the day before yesterday. I cannot be sorry enough.”

Fuck. Jon was only sorry because Sansa had made him sorry, and that had not been part of her rather short-sighted vision of her future. If even Jon was so convinced of her innocence, the others would not be far behind, and that meant she needed a new direction to take.

No, no she wouldn’t think that far ahead. Sansa would find her father, direct him back to Winterfell, and return to the Queen’s court in the hopes that Dany would know what to do.

If the return of her father happened to wake her mother up from the catatonic state she had fallen into during the third wave, well that was none of Sansa’s business-and Sansa had no right to make it any of her business. Her mum was safe, at the very least, away from any intruders or White Walkers in what had been the attic. No one would disturb her, and one of the Starks fed her daily. That was all Sansa deserved to know, and she needed to be content with that knowledge.

"You'll need to pick uup the pace if you're planning on reaching London anytime this year."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt an of you were perched on the edge of your seats in anticipation, but here's another chapter. Ta da. Now, on with my notes for tomorrow's lectures -_-

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that won't leave me alone. I've recently finished Jane Eyre and even though I hate it, I feel like the dull, boring, excessive descriptions have somehow corrupted me. On top of that, I'm venturing into a degree that initially focuses on Victorian literature-there is no saving me.  
> I'm sick of seeing mutant/evo/similar terms, so in a fit of unoriginality I used bastion. I want it to have positive connotations, at least in this point of time.  
> Sorry for how awful it is, I just needed to get it out of my head, I have work to do =/  
> I do have a huge overall draft/cliff notes and the start of the next chapter, but I don't know whether this is worth continuing.  
> Sansa needs to be badass, Ned Stark needs to somehow be alive-in fact, the whole family does. I don't really know how to write this decently, so I'm winging it.


End file.
